


foundling-bird

by dustofwarfare



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Ardynoct Week, Canon Divergence, Character Study, Gen, but this isn't shippy because noctis is eight, marilith attack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-21
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-06-30 10:30:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15749874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustofwarfare/pseuds/dustofwarfare
Summary: Ardyn makes certain his features are composed, and turns to face the Astrals’ weapon with as kind a smile as his liar’s mouth can conjure. “You may think of me as a sort of fairy godfather. How’s that?”Noctis giggles like any little kid, and says, “Okay, mister Ardyn. If you say so.”____In which Ardyn saves Noctis from the marilith, because Noctis needs to grow up if he's to be of any use at all.





	foundling-bird

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Ardynoct Week: Day 1, for the prompt "Ardyn saves Noctis from the marilith daemon as a child." Totally inspired by [this awesome art from Weirdfans](https://weirdfans.tumblr.com/post/177203193188/ardynoct-week-day-1-ardyn-saves-noctis-from-he) for the same prompt, ahhh! 
> 
> Thanks to Marmolita for the beta! Title from the Grimm's Fairy Tale of the same name :D
> 
> (this is gen!fic, it's not shippy. Noctis is 8, so the warning is terrible things happening to/in front of a child, and Ardyn being...Ardyn. He saves Noctis, and heals him. Eventually. HE'S STILL ARDYN. Anyway >>)

Ardyn watches the marilith as she writhes and hisses, moonlight reflecting off her iridescent skin, deadly poison dripping from flashing fangs as she seeks to decimate the contingent of humans surrounding her.

It’s – boring, really. Watching humans fight things they don’t understand (and have no possible chance to win against) always is. They shout and shoot their guns and fall beneath the _woosh-snap_ of the marilith’s tail, bones shattering and screams of agony breaking the stillness of the night.

_Perhaps if you spoke to her like a creature of some sense and sentience instead of a mindless monster, she’d stop trying to bite you or crush you to death. But perhaps not. Life is a delightful little adventure full of uncertainties, isn’t it?_

Uncertainties, and choices – like the one Ardyn faces at the moment. For he is at a crossroads (figuratively, at least, as at the moment he is perched, crow-like, on the branch of a tree), and the time in which he must decide between two options is rapidly dwindling down to nothing.

Either he does nothing -- and therefore sees first-hand if those would-be godlings are worth the gold-rimmed pages of their big blue book – or he intervenes, saving the only thing that will one day be able to kill him from certain death by daemon.

“If I believed in your ability to even understand the concept of _dramatic irony_ , which I must confess that I do not,” Ardyn says, out loud to no one in particular, because one does pick up a few bad habits when one exists for a millennium or two, and verbosity regardless of audience is certainly one of Ardyn’s. “I would say this attempt to reproduce it, whether for my benefit or not, is a bit too on the nose. One wonders why no one taught the lot of you any _subtlety._ ”

Ardyn waits a few seconds longer and then heaves a sigh, warping down to the scene of the grisly encounter.

There, huddled in a ball of black clothes and messy hair amidst the carnage, is a boy. Eight years old and small for his age, the tear on the back of his shirt says that he’s been injured, though not fatally – the same cannot be said for his retinue – and he stares at Ardyn with the wide-eyed mistrust of a child who just watched every adult who was supposed to keep him safe be ripped to shreds by a monster.

Little does he know, the stranger standing before him is far worse than the daemon now cowering in fear. Ardyn holds out a hand toward the boy and waits to see which _he_ will choose; a giant snake or a stranger appearing out of nowhere.

 _I don’t really envy you, lad,_ Ardyn thinks. _I’m sure that I look quite less frightening than a monster and yet, I’m most certainly the one you should be afraid of._

The boy isn’t aware that Ardyn is both the living, breathing embodiment of the daemon who is slinking off into the dark _and_ the very worst kind of stranger he’s been warned about; the kind that means him harm. But the daemon would like to rip the boy into lovely pieces right _now_ , and Ardyn has no intention of doing so for at least a dozen years, so he supposes he really is the better of two choices. “Come along, now. I shan’t hurt you.”

_Not until you can hurt me back._

The boy gives a gasping sob and hurls himself straight at Ardyn.

“Honestly,” Ardyn says, waving a hand to dismiss the marilith _and_ the lesser daemons who are creeping into the area, “None of you are worth the plaster on the pedestals on which you insist to be placed.”

The boy blinks up at him, eyes a hazy blur from pain, poison, and fright. “Where are you taking me?” he asks, hands curling into Ardyn’s coat. His voice is slurring, and he’s the slightest of weight in Ardyn’s arms. “Where’s my dad?”

 _Stupid enough to let you wander about with idiots who don’t care about you or your safety, apparently,_ Ardyn thinks, but says, only, “We shall make certain you are all right, and then get you straight home.”

The poison won’t kill the boy before Ardyn can administer a potion – which, he supposes, he could do now if he wished. But he doesn’t stop, just walks with the trembling, nearly-unconscious form of his future doom in his arms, humming a little tune as he walks.

“Trust me when I say you will most certainly make this up to me,” Ardyn says, but the boy has fallen unconscious, and does not hear.

***

The boy is covered in a cold sweat and delirious by the time they get to shelter, a small house set back amidst the woods and long ago abandoned. Ardyn sees the hastily scrawled runes on the ground and shakes his head; the would-be mage mixed up the arcane symbols for _protect_ and _purify_ and arranged two others in the wrong order, which meant that the only benefit was the inhabitants did not themselves turn to daemons when they were attacked.

If the runes worked at all. No doubt they were copied gracelessly from those surrounding the havens, old magic that was mostly lost even back in Ardyn’s day. It wasn’t enough just to copy them, but it definitely wasn’t enough to copy them _incorrectly._

Ardyn dispels the dust and dirt in the small one-room structure with a wave of his hand and a muttered _aero_ , then deposits the boy on the bed while he conjures a potion from his armiger. It takes a few tries before he’s able to get the boy to swallow, two fingers stroking gently down the front of the boy’s throat to trigger him the reflex, then a quick pinch of the nose and mouth when that didn’t work. Once the boy has taken the potion, Ardyn leaves him to his rest and goes to sit on a chair across from a cold hearth full of ash and rotted wood.

The only thing in the house of any note is a tawdry erotic romance that Ardyn read at least forty years prior, a cookbook, and a copy of the Cosmogony.

He tears the pages out of the latter and throws them into the fire, smiling as he watches them burn.

***

“’lo? S’cuse me, mister?”

Ardyn, who after burning the entirety of the Astrals’ Book of Lies and Charlatanry page by bloody page started reading the romance novel, looks up and smiles in false cheer at the sight of the boy sitting up in bed. “Ah! Awake, are you? That’s good. You had quite a fright. Do you remember what happened?”

The boy regards him with those dark blue eyes, his face wary. He nods. “There was. A daemon. A snake thing.”

“A marilith,” Ardyn corrects. “Named after an old myth, where a woman went mad weeping for her stolen child. They say a jealous king stole it because it was more beautiful than his own son, and he wanted _his_ prince to be the fairest in all the land.”

The boy makes a face at him and creeps closer, in that way children have, where they think themselves safe from scary things if they themselves cannot reach out and touch them. “I thought it was her sister that was jealous. Of the baby.”

“Oh, was it?” Ardyn smiles at him. “I suppose I must have jealous kings on the mind, silly me! Come now, tell me your name, won’t you?”

The boy swallows and his gaze darts about the small cabin. “Do you live here?” he asks, avoiding the question. It’s unnecessary; Ardyn knows very well who the boy is.

“No, but very lucky for the both of us that I was able to find it. We must stay here until it is daytime, and therefore safe to travel.”

The boy goes immediately to the window. Outside it is, in fact, a bright and cloudless day; but Ardyn has some abilities that have been his since birth, that the Astrals cannot recall and the Scourge cannot distort. It’s a simple thing to cast a glamor, one that would be easily proven false were the boy to simply open the front door. But the child takes what he sees for granted when he looks out of the dirty window, and what he sees is nothing but endless dark.  “It’s still night?”

“Yes,” Ardyn says, his voice kept carefully even while malice snaps and crackles like a fire inside of him. “It would seem so.”

The boy drops the dingy curtain and faces him. “My name is Noctis. What’s yours?”

No surname, but it’s not necessary. Noctis Lucis Caelum is the child’s full name, the Crown Prince of Lucis. He would become the 114th Lucian King to sit the throne, if Ardyn did not intend to see it burnt to cinders, and Noctis along with it.

Not today, and not tomorrow. But sooner, now, than it’s ever been.

“My name is Ardyn,” he says, because he’s taken a different surname a few times over the entirety of his lifespan, but he’s never once lied about his given name. It is the only true thing he has left, perhaps, given to him by a mother whose face he does not remember, and whose own name was long ago lost to the ravages of the Scourge.

“Can you call my dad?” the boy asks, looking around. “Is there a phone?”

“I don’t have one and this place appears to be lacking in anything but that bed and a fireplace, but do not worry, young Noctis. I know a prince when I see one.” Ardyn smiles. “I shall see you safely home to your father, you have my word.”

As much as this is the future instrument of his doom, the sword that will one day send him to oblivion or hell or wherever it is fallen kings are fated to go…at this moment Noctis is naught but  liquid silver not yet ready for the mold.

Noctis chews on his bottom lip. “What – what happened to the people who were with me?”

_They couldn’t possibly kill me, so I let them all die._

Ardyn gentles his voice. “I’m afraid they weren’t as lucky as you, young Noctis. What a pity I didn’t arrive sooner.”

Noctis sits back on the bed and crosses his legs, pulling suspiciously at the ratty cover beneath him. He winces a little as he does so. The bite from the marilith was on his back, and he will have scars. Which Ardyn could have healed, in days long past, but that particular skill lies far beyond the abilities of a simple potion. Besides. Perhaps the scars will entice him to be a bit more _careful._

“I think something went wrong,” Noctis says. “Um. Not the – snake. I think we weren’t supposed to be there. I heard the driver talking about money, and – making sure to bring back the evidence. He talked about meeting a ship somewhere, too. We weren’t s’posed to go past the Wall but we did.”

Oh, _wonderful._ Now Ardyn is going to have to return the Crown Prince of Lucis to his father _and_ find out who in the Empire was responsible for a truly asinine assassination attempt. If it’s not one thing it’s another.

“I’m sure it was a simple mistake. It is difficult to see the roads at night, I’m sure no one would want to hurt you,” Ardyn soothes, because the last thing he needs is the tensions between Lucis and Niflheim escalating before he decides it is time. It is rather difficult, really, arranging people to behave just how he wants them to.

Why, it’s almost enough to make him have sympathy for the Astrals. Almost.

Noctis just nods. “My back hurts,” he says, shyly. “But I don’t feel as bad as I did. Did you heal me?” He picks up the empty potion – Ardyn’s always been a bit of a traditionalist, and he’s always preferred crafting potions in antique glass bottles. This one is a pretty dark green, the exact same color of a tonberry’s precious little face. He doesn’t use them often. Ardyn himself doesn’t suffer any injuries at all thanks to the Scourge, and he rarely likes anyone enough to heal them.

Which does make him wonder why he’s insisted on making them and storing them in his armiger, all these years.

Perhaps he’s been preparing them for Noctis, all along. He shall have to craft some more, clearly. They have quite a few years to go before Noctis is old enough to fulfill his destiny. And apparently Regis cannot be counted on to keep Noctis safe, so Ardyn shall have to make sure to do it for him.

“I did, yes.”  

“Oh. Thank you. Are you a healer?”

Ardyn keeps his smile polite, but the nails of his left hand dig into his palm, so hard they pierce through the leather of his fingerless gloves. He’ll need another pair, then. “I’ve some skill in that area, but nothing special.” _Not anymore._

Noctis stares at him and Ardyn stares back, as a moment of oddly familiar awareness passes between two of them; one, a monster who is barely a man, and the other a boy who is barely a king. “Have I met you before?”

“No,” Ardyn says and turns away quickly, for the Scourge is pressing against his eyes, his mouth, and he does not want Noctis to see his true face. “But you’ve read fairy tales, haven’t you, Noctis?”

“Sure,” Noctis says, from behind him. “I mean. When I was a little kid,” he adds, like he’s the worldliest eight-year-old in all of Eos.

“Well.” Ardyn makes certain his features are composed, and turns to face the Astrals’ weapon with as kind a smile as his liar’s mouth can conjure. “You may think of me as a sort of fairy godfather. How’s that?”

Noctis giggles like any little kid, and says, “Okay, mister Ardyn. If you say so.”

Ardyn laughs with him. Why not. The future is so very far away.

***

Ardyn takes Noctis to his car via a piggyback ride, and then drives to a Kenny Crowe’s diner and tells Noctis to go and call his father to collect him.

“My Dad says you should wait here so he can say thank you,” Noctis says. He’s eating a plate of fries and drinking a soft drink, with a comic book Ardyn procured for him open next to his snack. He has fry grease on his face and a smear of ketchup on his mouth.

Ardyn highly doubts Regis Lucis Caelum would want to thank him. Regis will likely know exactly who he is, for one, and for another...Ardyn did let him think his son was dead for much longer than necessary. But like the scars on Noctis’s back, there are some lessons that must be learned the hard way. Perhaps Regis will be more careful, now.

“Oh, he can thank me another time,” Ardyn says, ruffling Noctis’s hair. “After all, I’m your fairy godfather, remember? We’re bound to run into each other again. Now, Noctis, do be a good boy and don’t go galavanting about outside the Wall until you’re older and stronger, all right?”

“ _Okay_ ,” Noctis says, chin in his hand, his attention straying a bit to the comic book. He sounds a bit like Ardyn’s just told him to tidy his room.

“And practice with your sword,” Ardyn says. “That way, you can kill the monster yourself next time.”

“Yeah! And if you get hurt, I’ll give you a potion ‘cause I can make those, too. Or I will, one day. If I practice. And I will! I promise!” Noctis smiles brightly at Ardyn. “But maybe you should stay away from monsters, Mr. Ardyn. Just in case I’m not ready yet when you see one.”

Ardyn tips his hat and says, “You will be, Noctis. I’ll make sure of it. What are fairy godfathers for?”

 


End file.
